Day 1096
by fairious
Summary: 3 years have passed and John still is having ever worsening nightmares of the fall of his greatest friend. After the worst one yet, Mary finally forces the reluctant doctor to go and visit once again. It has been exactly 1096 days, one day over the anniversery of his death, and John has just about given up all hope of that one last miracle he had prayed for all those years ago...


_Gunshots ripping the sky, bombs dropping at death's door, and still the fusiliers pushed on. This mission had gone from devastating to utter hell itself in only an hour's time yet on the soldiers ran, ducking for cover but refusing to give up the fight just yet. It was their duty to their country but every man still standing knew for sure that though that was true, today would most likely be their last day on earth defending it. Shells racketed throughout the vicinity and the enemy seemed to be enjoying picking off the members left. One by one, cruelly, like that of shooting flies down from a spider's web. John Watson, a member of the small crew left standing was the only true fire of hope left in his comrades' eyes- this one was not going to be shot down till a bullet went straight to his heart. He was already badly injured; the burned flesh of his shoulder stung his nostrils, but all the same, he seemed not to notice this in the slightest; his mind was too sharply focused in the intense heat of the battle. Unlike his fellows, he himself was the doctor of the crew, but with today's misfortune, every and any hand was needed if they were to see the sun rise ever again. Though the rest continued to fight, John was solitary in his utter ferocity. He was not going to die today and if he was- he was taking as many bastards with him. As the enemy drew closer and closer still, like a predator about to close in for the final, deathly blow, it was then when the entire world seemed to be ripped at the seams beneath John's feet. It was almost too silent in its approach, yet approach it did and then there was utter nothingness…nothing…nothing at all…_

_Slowly, seemingly hours later though it was only a few minutes after the initial drop of the A-bombs, John finally came to his senses and lifted himself up from the ground. He was surrounded by carnage; the land they had only been scouting just three hours ago was left in utter ruins and rubble. It almost seemed too quiet, John thought, too silent … And then he realized that the battle must have ceased and that he was left as a lone survivor. Alone … completely alone … He shook himself- he was the doctor, it was his job to heal, he needed to find someone, anyone and help them in the best way he could. It was his duty and he needed … to not be completely and utterly alone. Realizing his position, he backtracked to the more familiar surroundings he had only just left moments before. More carnage, more utter destruction, but now he felt he was walking though a sea of the dead as he passed the lifeless bodies both left and right. Searching, searching for the smallest glimmer of life, John trudged on. He was going to help, he was going to help … mind swimming and heart racing fit to burst he finally found a sign of the Union Jack- one of his men lying dead upon the ground, spread-eagled, with a dreamlike grace in a way and almost looking as though in sleep. Bending down, to see the identity of his fallen friend, he felt his heart rising to his throat. Hell didn't even seem to compare to the place John was, kneeling beside a possible friend, his heart literally in pieces on the ground. Whispering "God, no…" he lifted the visor of the man on the ground and saw those piercing blue eyes, lifeless and empty for the first time John had ever seen them, skin as pale as death itself, and a mop of blood soaked black locks, still oozing from the fall. "I'm his friend, I'm his friend" John breathed to himself… "Jesus__**. Sherlock**__…"_

And as the utter wave of utter heartbreak raced over him and as he began to scream out in the dream- John Watson awoke in a cold sweat still screaming out in agony. Mary, startled awake tried to calm John but there was no point, he was still lost to the world, still in his dream. After a moment or so, he fully realized that he was not out on the battlefield again but was besides Mary, his lovely Mary - but all the same he could not muster up enough courage to soothe his trembling wife. Instead he broke down, completely breaking the wall of confined emotion he had bottled for the past three years, finally letting go of his strong soldier persona and instead let the tears fall into his hands. He had not sobbed this much since the very beginning, but nothing mattered, nothing … And Sherlock was gone … dead and gone.

Mary, seeing for the first time in its utter entirety the emotion John had always confined behind closed doors, completely understood. She hugged him much like the mother of a bawling child would and comforted him the best she could, letting her own tears silently drip down as she embraced his almost lifeless, sobbing form. Slowly, he returned back to a dreamless sleep, still in Mary's arms, as she lay awake, trying to be his anchor from the dreams that still plagued him where his emotions could not be confined.

"John, _please_ stop trying to forget. It only makes you hurt so much more," she whispered in tears, to his dozing form. "I can't lose you…"

…..

By the next morning, Mary awoke, quite alone, on her side of the bed, and realized John must have gotten up early as he always did. She sat in bed, pondering last night's outburst. She knew the pain he carried but had never seen him express it so. She loved her husband but it was so hard for him underneath the surface, though he seemed so happy on the exterior. She too knew his pain, losing almost all her family quite early in her life, and this shared feeling of loss and loneliness seemed to bind her and her John even closer together, because they alone understood one another as no other did so.

She was _so_ proud, she thought to herself, how her John could be so strong and brave every day but she knew on the inside she would catch glimpses of utter darkness in her husband, a hole not even she could replace in his heart. He did seem happiest, though, when he spoke of Sherlock to her, telling tales of their amazing adventures, and she was so acquainted with them that she felt she had too known the mysterious man all her life as well as John did himself. All the same, these moments of happiness did not last and more often than not, in his stoic militaristic nature, John tried to hide the man away and to forget of his existence completely, regarding such stories to her only once in a long while at his lowest hours. Mary knew though- he _must_ remember, for if you forget love, nothing else remains.

…

Making her way down to the kitchen, she found John at the breakfast table of their comfortable home, nose in his newspaper as always. Like usual, he had made two cups of tea, which though he would often argue that the other was always meant for Mary, she knew him too well and knew some habits never would die. Taking her place on the opposite side of the table, she stared pointedly at the newspaper he was behind till he knew her gaze was upon him and had no choice but to lower his newspaper to face her.

"You need to visit." she said. There was no point to not be blunt, and John knew that her stubbornness was not to be gone against, yet he loved this about her all the same.

Today however, after last night's experience, John did not want to lower his walls at any time soon. He needed to be strong, for her and for himself and in the back of his mind he knew he would not be able to face the grave after last night's nightmarish experience.

"No. Mary. I'm sorry but I-"

"No. You need to John. I know."

"But Mary-why should I? I'm fine-"

"You are not and you know it. I constantly worry about you _so_ much and you _need_ to see him - just talk to him because I know how much he meant to you. If you do this, you will get better, and I am always here for you. _Always._ So go to him."

"But Mary-"

"Please." she replied. It was not pleading, but he saw in her eyes how sad she was for him. John felt his heart break, not only was his own still broken but now he was breaking his love's as well, out of his own sadness.

"All right - I'll be back by this evening. I'll go for you, my love."

"Do you want me to come?" She asked, already knowing the answer in his eyes.

"No. I'll manage - mind making some apple strudel? Lestrade said he may be coming over tonight…"

"But of course," she smiled. She knew he was just trying to protect her from his sadness- but she complied all the same. That's what marriage is after all, she thought, complete understanding.

"I love you," he said as he squeezed her tight, getting up from the table. They kissed and John left Mary still smiling in her sadness at the mantelpiece she often averted her eyes to, where sat a solitary, white-washed skull as a personal memoriam.

….

As soon as John got into the cab, he was utterly regretting his destination wholeheartedly as soon as he gave the name of his destination to the cabby. It had been so long since he visited, he just couldn't force himself to go, it was still too painful. Yet here he was, going to the place that still haunted his dreams. He mentally damned himself for breaking his barriers again, he _had _to focus on having the happy life he should be having with his wonderful Mary. He hated that she loved him so much when he himself thrived in his self hatred, because he wasn't able to save that twat from jumping off a building to save his own god damn soul. He knew that this was for a fact, because no matter what he had said that day at St. Bart's, John knew him to be the real thing and never did doubt his belief in his best friend _even _when he himself told him that he made up the whole thing. He had always believed in Sherlock and no matter what lies were fed to him, John remained constant in his belief in him to the ends of the earth. No one could change that.

As John sat in the backseat of the cab, he tried to plan out what he was to say to the git today at his grave. No words rose to his mind all the same and he instead blankly stared ahead into the nothingness of the world around him because nothing really did seem to matter in his pathetic existence.

Feeling the pain starting to build again as the cab rounded the corner, just before the gravesite, he had it pull over to the nearest convenience store, deciding he would walk it from there. Stopping inside to buy a few packs of cigarettes, John slipped into his militaristic training once again and trudged to the opposite street, even though his heart seemed to throb with every step taken closer and closer to his greatest friend. At his approach to the black grave marker his feet had naturally taken him to, John regained his composure and stopped before it, ready to speak once again to his long dead friend.

"Well… hello again. It's been three years, since yesterday, Sherlock, or as you would say, probably, only 1094 days." He chuckled sadly to himself, remembering his friend's over-meticulous nature almost for the sake of being always right in an argument. "But for once, I'm the one who's right, Sherlock, because it has been exactly 1096 days since you…well…" John began again, trying to remain strong and not let his emotion overtake him just yet.

"Well anyways, a lot has happened since you've … well … been gone. Lestrade got sacked but is now a private eye. I sometimes help out in some cases … but, well, Molly's engaged, and Mrs. H is still as lively as ever. I'm married now, I believe I did tell you … but you probably, for once, would've loved this girlfriend of mine. Might have even remembered her name for once!" he chuckled, in spite of himself.

"She doesn't think I notice, but she's visited you once or twice. Anyways…" At this point, John was starting to lose his strong thread and was beginning to deteriorate once again.

"Well … I … well, I brought you some cigarettes, even though I know we said cold turkey but still … thought you might…" At a loss for words, John at this point simply put the packets at the head of the black marble chuckling beside himself at what a contrast this gift left were to be compared to that of the flowers left at every over grave marker around him.

"Well … Sherlock … I meant to say this before, but you are still the greatest friend and man I have ever known and nothing anyone says _will ever_ change that. I stand by what I told you before here…" (He was beginning to break down once again.) "I was so alone and I owe you so much…but I am still alone…without you. You are still an idiot _but_ you were the greatest … the absolute … greatest. And now that it's been three years … I know that miracle is never going to come true … You. Are. Dead. But … _why can I still not accept it?_" Tears were oozing now but John let them fall, there was no one around, it was once again too quiet, much like that in his dream.

"So…" (He was trying to hurry himself-to get the words out of his system once and for all.) "Miracles just don't happen I guess. You probably think I'm an idiot for believing at all … but…all the same…"

"Why, although they are improbable completely, you must remember, John, that once you remove all that is impossible, whatever remains, no matter how _improbable,_ must be the truth. Don't you remember?" Said an unmistakable voice behind a nearby tree.

John, refusing to believe what he had just heard, who he might have heard, called out to the vicinity, probably appearing mad to anyone nearby- "Who was that?!"

"And really John, didn't we agree cold turkey? Dead or not, you know I am remarkably stubborn." And stepping out from a nearby tree, stood the tall, impossibly thin, black clad figure of Sherlock Holmes himself, in the flesh, _directly in front of John_. "Hello, John" he said as easily as if they had been parted for less than a day, and as if not a day had gone by since they had last seen one another.

"Sh-Sherlock?!" cried John, in utter disbelief and for the first time in his life, the doctor lost consciousness in his utter and complete shock.

He was out for maybe 10 seconds, but quickly revived to see he was being held up by his long DEAD friend. "John?" He asked again, seemingly worried the doctor might faint again in his arms, but that was as far from the reality of the situation as possible because as soon as John realized in a matter of seconds this was absolutely _for sure_, Sherlock Holmes, he raised and planted a punch right in the nose of the completely un-bashed in and seeming fully healthy head of the consulting detective. Practically screeching in rage, John snarled at the detective ready to strike again at that idiotic head-

"THREE GOD DAMN YEARS SHERLOCK. YOU WERE DEAD! ON THE PAVEMENT! 1096 DAYS OF YOU MAKING ME BELIEVE YOU WERE DEAD!"

"John I can explain!" Shouted Sherlock over his friend's yells with his sopping and broken nose.

As John raised his fists again for another attack, Sherlock flinched but was ready and therefore did not expect what came next when he thought more blows were to come. Instead, John had grabbed him round the middle and had pulled the overly towering detective into a massive hug, with tears still trailing down the doctor's face.

"Don't. You. Ever. Do. That Again." He said, in between his sobs, and Sherlock, the sociopath, supposedly incapable of feeling emotion, began to tear up as well and smiled, fully reciprocating the hug now.

"I promise." He replied tearily, in spite of himself, and when John finally pulled away, he said: "So John, I do suppose you have questions but we do have a lot of work to accomplish so shall we return to Baker Street at once?"  
"_No shit,_ Sherlock." John laughed, with tears of joy in his eyes. And at Sherlock's highly affronted expression, he replied; "We aren't going _anywhere_ till you meet Mary and fully explain yourself at once, as well as meet with everyone who's thought you dead for three years because, like it or not you idiot, I'm not your only friend."

Sherlock shocked, and slightly disgruntled, as he had hoped to put off those meetings till later, sighed in agreement all the same.

"Shall I call a cab then?" he said rolling his eyes as he knew he had to go along so as to not risk yet another potential injury to his already fractured nose.

"_Sherlock_ - _we are walking_. You have quite a lot of explaining to do."

"And I don't suppose I have a choice?"

"Nope."

"_Fine_. Where do you want to start?" Sherlock said with a heavy sigh and as they proceeded out of the graveyard, the world once again was set right.

_The Detective and his Blogger were reunited once more._


End file.
